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The Agent, The Girl, and the Fidelistas

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Barbaria1 said:
Do you wanna dance ... under the moonlight? Baaaaby, do you wanna dance?

That’s a song, right? :rolleyes:
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Hmmm. I was thinking more along the lines of

She pulled up on her wrists, pushed up on her feet, took a few gasping, sobbing breaths, and screamed again as she fell to hang again by the nails piercing her wrists. She pushed up again, this time trying to take the weight off of one wrist, moving an instant later to try the same with the other. This caused her hips to undulate side to side, as if in a seductive dance. The dance of the cross, performed unthinkingly, unwillingly, the body out of the control of its owner.

but that sounds nice too. :D
 

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Praefectus praetorio said:
This is the first story I have ever posted anywhere, so, gentle reader, be kind.

The Agent, the Girl, and the Fidelistas

Chapter One

Content reviewed and approved by CIA censor, per public disclosure laws with 25 year time passage from actual events. Required redactions are in { }

The operation was fucked up from the beginning! I knew it. My handler knew it. I think his boss knew it but was afraid buck the top boys. But the god-damned political boys hanging around the office of DDO (Deputy Director of Operations) and even DCIA (Director, Central Intelligence Agency), thought they were geniuses and had invented a new way to do covert!

It was a simple enough mission to begin with. If was summer 1960, and we wanted to contact in person some of the local anti-Castros that I had developed over several years in the south-west of Cuba. They were near the coast and I would have to go by boat. My handler, {Wragg} , is good guy and always looking out for my safety. He forced me to go over and over the details until it was as close to perfect as possible.

I would use the excellent cover I’d developed over the years as a Canadian entrepreneur on a sailing vacation in the Carib. I used to crew on Bermuda Cup Races on my vacations so I’m overqualified for a 25 ft private sloop. One man can handle it well if he knows what he’s doing.

I would spend a week sailing around Jamaica, snorkeling and hitting the bars. We knew Castro had agents placed there more or less continually. I would drink and throw money around (the Agency was always good about funding the appearance of wealth) and tell how my company had just made a big deal so I was taking a month in the Carib snorkeling and sailing. Next stop South East Cuba. I would ask about bars and ways to spend money there. We knew the communists were getting desperate for foreign exchange since US had cracked down. We figured the agents would tell their buddies back in Cuba to leave me alone and let me spend.

All was going along well and we had the boat arranged and the money and the itinerary, when in the early fall, {Wragg} and I were called to a meeting by the Section Chief, {thehangingtree}. When we arrived in the room, there were a couple of the new boys there, looking very smug. The chief asked us to go over our plan. {Wragg} objected, for, as dangerous a mission as this, we rarely gave details to anyone else, and then only on a NTK (need to know) basis. The Chief looked embarrassed, as if he had been caught with his knickers down in a DC men’s room with a highly placed FBI administrator. But one of the punks spoke up in a superior voice and said, “DDI (Deputy Director of Intelligence - the guys who read secret cables and thought deeply, and had no idea what work in the field was like!) needs to know and he authorized us to get the info.” (He seemed quite proud of using the term, “info” as if he had invented it. Before I could gag, I saw the Chief nod his head, “Please, {Apostate}, tell us the details.

So we went over every thing, slowly so the smart boys from Yale could follow. When we finished, the second, slightly older one (maybe 31), gave us his concern.

“We have a really big show we are preparing that will lift off (honest to God and I swear on Allen Welsh Dulles’ grave, the twit said "really big show" and “lift off”) early next year. We could use some additional information from your sources in that exact area, and we, of course, don’t want your ah, mission, compromising ours.”

Before I lunged at the dear man to show him how good I am at compromising missions of bullcrap, my handler put his hand firmly on my shoulder and said in a cold, hard voice, {Apostate} has never compromised a mission. If you bother to look at the files, you will see that he has one of the best success rates in the whole agency.”

The other twit tried to back off a little and made noises about great confidence in me. I decided I would wait until I ran into either of them in a dark alley behind headquarters to show them some confidence.

The meeting soon broke up and we went back to {Wragg} office to hit his 10 year old Scotch and complain about things we had no control over.

Three days later we were back in the Chief’s office with the older SOB, being briefed on the changes the “guys up top” (I swear, that’s what he said!) had made. He said they thought there would be better cover if I took along a second agent who would be presented as my fiancé. And this would allow them to implant an agent who know what their “Big Show” was and gather appropriate info (again with “info”) from my contacts.

We could see it was a done deal, so only mildly objected. We threw out names of some female agents we thought would work, but twit boy immediately shot it down. The “guys up top” had already chosen my sidekick. Waving aside any issues, he tapped the intercom and asked for Agent {Barbara Moore} to be sent in.

Censor's comment: name of agent Moore should be redacted, but due to subsequent events, it is not a concern.

The door opened and in walked a very attractive young woman. I must be honest and say all I could think of was what a knock-out she was! And how young she was!
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Praefectus praetorio said:
Don't worry, you won't spend much time wearing it!
Click to expand...

Moore Barbara ..... Let me see.......
Nope....... never heard of her
How do you spell it?
Is it with an "E"?
 

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Chapter Three

Over the next two weeks, I interacted extensively with Agent {Barbara Moore} bringing her up to speed on the operation. Being a highly trained and experienced field agent, I quickly learned several things about Agent {Barbara}

First, she was even prettier and sexier up close than my initial impression. After that first day she dressed more casually in sweaters, button blouses, even pants. My first impression of her body was confirmed and even enhanced by the evidence I observed during this period.

Second, the kid was VERY smart. In spite of her Yale education, and the time spent at the junior g-man training camp, she had a quick mind and picked up what I told her very quickly with excellent retention.

Third, she indeed had ZERO experience in anything that could prepare her for this mission. Though she seemed brave and dedicated, she was very innocent and naïve.

Fourth, despite her youth and inexperience, she was amazingly feisty and outspoken. She didn’t suffer fools lightly and had appropriately derogatory comments to make about the two twits and the “guys up top” she met, and even made rude and insulting comments about the Station Chief {thehangingtree}. She had no respect for him and regarded him as a sloppy drunk. I had to officially disagree with this, coming from a junior agent (I regarded {thehangingtree} as a harmless drudge,)

Fifth, I was totally unsure how I would keep my hands off her for three weeks on a tight little sailing yacht.



Soon the date for the mission was near and the boat was delivered to a marina called National Harbor on the Potomac across from Alexandria, near an old abandoned farm called Salubria Plantation. It was about an hour from Langley. Agent {Moore}, {Wragg}, and I went to inspect it.

It was somewhat bigger than I requested and outfitted with a lot more expense. Apparently, the twits had pulled strings to get a more impressive yacht for a Canadian Millionaire. I had no worry being able to handle her and thought Agent {Moore} would be of some help. But as we toured the inside, I quickly realized in what intimate space Agent {Moore} and I would be. Several times we tried to get by each other and were only moderately successful in avoiding contact.

Back at Langley at end of the day, I suggested that Agent {Moore} join me for a drink at the private bar maintained for field agents at the back corner of the second floor (directly under the office of the DDO – supposedly placed there because only he would not complain if some of his agents got a little rowdy in light of the incredible stress in the field.)

Drinking age in Virginia then was 21, but there was no concern of any state agents raiding this bar. There was a strongly held belief in the agency that if you took on the risks of a field agent, no one could object to you having some alcohol before 21 (Station Chief {thehangingtree} had no objection to drinking any amount, anytime, anywhere – so I knew we had his support – if only he could support himself in a non-prone position).

At the bar I ordered my usual Bombay Sapphire G&T. I had learned to drink that in Burma in the early 50’s with a Brit I worked with (he was on Her Majesty’s Secret Service). He taught me the cool, bitter pleasure’s that that drink. I hear he has since switched to Vodka Martinis, shaken and not stirred. (A poor idea in my opinion, since it often makes the drink cloudy, while I think the crystal clarity of a Martini is its best point)

Agent {Moore} ordered a Sloe Gin Fizz. I tried not to look judgmental. She was impressively mature for her age in some ways, but occasionally, as here, betrayed a very youthful callow inexperience. I would have to improve her drink selection in the Caribbean or everyone would take me for a cradle-robber.

As we talked and began on second drinks, we were much looser and more casual, and Agent {Moore}’s attractiveness was working on me. When I addressed her again as Agent {Moore}, she interrupted me and looked me in the eyes and said, “Since we’re going on this mission as an engaged couple, you had better refer to me a little less formally. How about you call me Barb. What should I call you? I certainly can’t use your codename, {Apostate}!”

Censor’s Note: As previously mentioned, redacting of Agent {Moore}’s name is not vital due to the outcome of the mission. To make redaction less burdensome, the diminutive, Barb, doesn’t need to be redacted at all.

I replied {Julian} or some friends call me Jewels. Barb smiled coyly, “Jewels, huh? As in family? I like that!”

Censor’s Note: {Julian}, of course, must be redacted. However, an extensive record search has failed to find any reference to codename, ahem, “Jewels,” therefore it does not require redaction.

Encouraged by the increased intimacy of first names, I blurted out something about how I was looking forward to getting away from DC, alone with her, as an engaged couple.

Barb stopped and stared at me. Oh shit! I’m a good agent but not always the best with words with the girls. Life as a field agent pretty much precludes a wife and family, but I’ve had my share of interesting and eager women over the years. But here I was, coming onto a new agent, 14 years my junior, and under my direction. It was revolting to me to think of using my position or seniority to obtain favors from another worker. I had seen it happen many times and always been disgusted. I had even reported a few. But I soon learned that the “guys up top” didn’t care and it came back to hurt me. My Station Chief {thehangingtree} was one of the worst offenders, even when he was half-drunk (his more competent state compared to drunk on his ass!).

I stammered out some incoherent apology that I can’t even really remember, except it included a lot of “I’m Sorry!”; “I never meant!”; “Please don’t think!”, etc.

A mischievous smile came onto Barb’s face. She put her hand on mine to stop me and stared into my eyes with those deep liquid browns of hers and said, “Please don’t worry, I’m really looking forward to being your fiancé for this trip!” The way she said it, the slight touch of her tongue on her lips and the almost, but not imperceptible, wiggle of her hips on the bar stool, let me know exactly what she was thinking.

After that we rather quickly called it a night, since we would be setting out early in the morning. I went home and lay in bed thinking about the mission as I always did the night before. But soon I was only thinking of Barb, and those hips!
 
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